he sits at his typewriter getting drunk off old root beer and writes poems about old men getting drunk on root beer and writing poems.
he writes about lost loves and sail boats and other places that people go to find dreams.
he writes about laughter and puppies full of glee with bow tied ribbons for collars about their necks.
he writes for the lovers and romantics in life. he writes for the dreamers on cold lonely nights.
he writes with great passion in bold daring strokes. he'd be a great painter with this word as his brush.
the picture could be delicate with just a small word maybe two or full of life with vibrant colored phrases that dazzle the mind's eye.
he writes from airplanes and from bus stop benches looking ever so busy with paper and pen.
he writes of the faces behind ballpark fences and the hours that pass by with expectant fathers' paces.
he writes about wars in our backyards or in faraway places, liking their pain and destruction to a counter evolution.
he writes for the leaders and builders of the future hoping his insight will inspire just a small spot of wisdom.
he writes through the storms, earthquakes and fires. he writes about the tears and the sadness and sorrow.
he writes about the joy in that new baby sound. another life coming to freshen the land.
he writes about life or maybe it's death. anyway, he writes from the places most people forget.
he writes of the black. he writes of the white. he writes of the in between and outside and in.
stories of adventure come from his pen, as do fables of love with their fairy tale ends.
he writes what we think and the things that we dream. he uses his imagination to define these things.
his words don't always appear. his works not always read. maybe it would be better if he sang them instead.
but he writes and he writes still drunk on old root beer the way old men do when they're drunk on old root beer.